Nina considered the information. Paul Revere had been a famous silversmith. "So the clue was meant to lead us to the body? He's done that before."
Wade stroked his jaw. “Planting that information could also serve as a false lead or a distraction in case we solved his clue and arrived in Boston before he had a chance to leave the scene.”
“Which is exactly what happened,” Kent said. “Do you think he knew we were there? That he has inside information?”
“You mean, do I think he’s a cop?” The room grew quiet when Wade posed the question. “Possibly, but I find it more likely he’s a police buff who’s monitoring the investigation any way he can.”
“Why not a cop?” Nina said. She had never considered the idea but couldn’t see how Wade would rule it out with such certainty.
Wade appeared to weigh his words before he spoke, no doubt aware that he was speaking to everyone present. The opinion of a profiler would impact the investigation going forward.
“He would be attracted to a position with an aura of authority, like a policeman, a military officer, a doctor, or a pilot. He’s such a control freak and so narcissistic, however, that he would have trouble taking orders and—if he managed to obtain such a position—would quickly get discharged or otherwise fired.”
“So you’re saying he would have to be the boss?” she said.
“When you were in that alley, your counterattack didn’t deter him, did it? He wasn’t the least bit afraid, even when you held him at gunpoint.”
She shook her head. “I think it excited him.” She hesitated a moment before posing her next question in an open forum. “Speaking of guns, the unsub could have taken mine when I was unconscious, but he didn’t.”
“That’s because he wanted the thrill of the fight. He would prefer close quarters combat followed by the intimacy of strangulation. He’s a killer, but he’s also a power-assertive rapist.”
She needed clarification and imagined several others in the room who didn’t speak fluent psychobabble did too. “What do you mean?”
“Each victim was tortured before death. The injuries were not inflicted postmortem.” Wade warmed to his subject, clearly in his element. “He enjoys manipulating others. Violence excites him. He gets off on watching his victims cry and suffer.”
“In other words,” she said, “he’s a sadist.”
“More than that. He feeds on ultimate power. He makes his victims beg. He’ll offer them mercy, only to refuse it after they comply with his demands. He wants to control everything they do, including when and how they die.”
Sweat beaded along her hairline as she listened to Wade. Everything he described was accurate. Down to the last detail. Had those other girls been made to plead? To cry? To suffer? Only to finally realize it had all been for nothing? She was sure they had. A toxic blend of rage and humiliation burned inside her.
Deputy Superintendent Tyson broke the silence. “What else can we do now?”
For the first time, she saw how much the experience garnered from decades spent investigating depraved killers and their horrific crimes had primed Wade to answer those sorts of questions. He rattled off his response without hesitation.
“Appeal to his ego. Let the media know we’ve got a huge task force on the case. Give it a name that plays off his chosen nickname. Call it Operation Cipher, or something like that.”
He turned to Breck, seated with a cluster of video techs. “He’s following this on regular and social media, but that may not be enough stimulation for him anymore. Get crowd shots at each scene and cross-check them with what we have in our database. See if we can enhance our image.”
Breck’s cheeks dimpled. “Now that we have a sample of his DNA, we can generate a picture of him using predictive DNA analysis—if we don’t find a match in the criminal DNA database.”
Wade responded with absolute certainty. “We won’t.” He turned to Buxton. “And we need to check for last-minute flight bookings with quick returns.”
“Already being done,” Buxton said. “Speaking of flights, I want to head back to Quantico, where we have all of our resources. We can coordinate through the task force as we follow up on any leads.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re all going to have a long day.”
Nina was sure he was right. She glanced down at her hands, reddened from her aggressive scrubbing in hot soapy water after the crime scene tech had scraped under her nails. She longed for a shower and the chance to wash away every microscopic particle of the monster that could still be on her body. The mere thought of him touching her skin repulsed her.
The trip to Boston had started with so much optimism. A sense of impending victory had buoyed them all as they boarded the jet. She had been swept up in the feeling of confidence that they would make an arrest and save a young life. Despite their best efforts, their head start, their advance preparation, they had done neither. Instead, another girl was dead, and the Cipher had slipped away.
Free to kill again.
Chapter 23
Nina pulled the foil wrapping apart and inhaled deeply. “God bless the Boston police.” She tore open a packet of mustard and squirted the contents over the layers of peppers, onions, and Italian sausage before reverently lifting the roll to her watering mouth.
Delaney’s lieutenant had given them a tall paper sack filled with hoagies after driving them to the airport. Buxton plopped the bag on the small table between their seats after the Gulfstream took off.
Breck cocked a brow at Nina. “Damn, girl.” It came out in two syllables. Day-um.
Nina jerked her chin at Wade, who was already halfway through his hoagie. “We haven’t had food this good since San Francisco.”
The sourdough bowl of clam chowder from Boudin Bakery was a distant memory.
Kent laughed. “I like a woman with a healthy appetite. Hate it when my date orders a salad with dressing on the side. Makes me feel like a Neanderthal eating a rib eye.”
“Give yourself some credit,” Wade said around a mouthful. “You’ve at least evolved to the Cro-Magnon stage.”
Buxton dug around in the bag. “Any mayo?”
Breck handed over two packets. “Have we heard anything back from Forensics?”
“We’ve got a rush on the DNA,” Buxton said. “If there’s a match in any of the databases, I’ll hear about it soon.” He tried to tear one of the plastic packets open. “In the meantime, did the BPD give you video of the ice chest delivery?”
Breck put down her sandwich. “They gave me a flash drive. The unsub is slick. We handed out a composite of a blue-eyed white guy and told the cops to watch for him on the Freedom Trail, and he gets past us to leave the victim’s body by posing as a Latino delivery man driving a van on Salem Street.” She popped open a can of soda. “He blended in with the other food service vehicles making drops behind the restaurants and cafés.”
“He’s a damn chameleon,” Buxton said, abandoning his attempt at twisting to tear the mayo packet open with his teeth.
Nina swallowed a bite from her hoagie. “What about his getaway from the sewage system? Did city cams pick him up anywhere?”